


intertwined

by vivelapluto



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, its angst but theres a happy ending i swear, red string soulmate au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-14
Updated: 2019-03-14
Packaged: 2019-11-17 18:02:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18103625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vivelapluto/pseuds/vivelapluto
Summary: the universe knows what it's doing (for the most part) or combeferre and courfeyrac, a red string that ties them together, and their own hearts that threaten to tear them apart





	intertwined

Courfeyrac’s been waiting.

He doesn’t really mind it, even on the bad days. If anything, it makes them better. It gives him hope, that one day, something good is guaranteed to happen. That at the other end of this long, winding string is someone out there, meant for him.

Of course, he’s tried tracking them down. Tried following it to wherever it might lead. But in all honesty, he’s not sure if the person at the other end even wants to be found. Every time he feels something — a tug, a quickening of his heartbeat, even just the slightest bit of intuition — it’s gone in an instant.

Clearly, he’s being avoided.

It’s not a feeling he particularly likes, but really, what can he do?

Nothing, except wait.

* * *

 

Combeferre’s only ever heard of one person cutting their string. He doesn’t even know it’s possible until Enjolras tells him about it, about a friend of an enemy of a friend or something, who just gave up.

He wonders what it would be like for the person on the other end. To spend your whole life searching before realizing you were all alone. 

Combeferre’s thought about it a thousand times.

Once, he even grabbed the scissors.

And he would have. He would have in an instant.

He’s decided to wait, though.

Maybe if he can meet the person, talk to them, help them understand why he doesn’t want this — the feeling will be mutual. There’ll be no guilt, no honeyed words, just — respect.

Maybe they’ll even part as friends.

Enjolras always laughs at this. “It’s how the world is, ‘Ferre. Trust me when I say there’s no way in hell you’re going to want to cut that string once you meet them.”

A small, cold part of Combeferre wishes he was brave enough to do it now, before.

* * *

 

Courfeyrac can feel it. His pulse is racing and his breath is catching and suddenly he’s on edge.

There’s a tug on the string, and Courfeyrac watches the thin red thread, eyes following its trail, weaving in between crowds of people.

Close.

So close.

Without thinking, he breaks into a run.

* * *

 

Combeferre sits alone at a table in a cafe, waiting. His restless fingers tap the edge of the one cup of coffee he’s ordered, the contents still untouched and at this rate, cold.

He’s done this to himself, really, though he’s seriously starting to regret it with the amount of times he’s had to remind himself that he’s here of his own will and volition.

Combeferre had followed the string.

Now, there’s nothing he can do but wait, because whoever’s on the other end is close now.

He’s brought the scissors, too.

Forget what Enjolras says, Combeferre’s come to his decision.

He doesn’t want this.

He doesn’t want whomever the universe has decided to pick for him.

He wants — 

Well, he’s not sure.

He’s so caught up in his own whirlwind of stubbornly defiant thoughts that he doesn’t notice the slightly breathless man who sits across from him.

Combeferre looks away as quickly as possible.

Because the smile on that face, the joy in his voice as he introduces himself — “Antoine Courfeyrac, pleasure to meet you,” —  has his heart skipping a beat.

“Lucien Combeferre,” he forces the words out quickly before he can take them back, “and I’m sorry.”

* * *

 

Courfeyrac swears he saw a light there.

Just a glimmer. Just a moment.

He’d bet his life on it.

But now Combeferre’s eyes hold nothing but sorrow, regret and—determination. As though, despite the clear string that intertwines them, he’s searching for another, far-off goal. 

“Anyway, um,” Courfeyrac struggles to make light of the situation. Something’s not quite right here, he can tell.

It’s most certainly not Combeferre himself, not at all, but—

“How’s the coffee?” he blurts.

Combeferre frowns. “I wouldn’t know,” he says, sliding his cup across the table to Courfeyrac.

It’s still filled to the brim.

Courfeyrac clears his throat. “How are you?” he asks.

The question itself is natural, nonchalant, even.

But honestly, there’s something wrong and Courfeyrac feels like he should know what it is.

They’re soulmates, after all.

“Listen, Courfeyrac,” Combeferre replies, “you seem great and all, but the only reason you’re here is because I want to do this in person. I don’t want you to spend your whole life not knowing.”

* * *

 

Combeferre can’t do it.

He’s holding the scissors, the thread pulled taut between the blades.

Courfeyrac hasn’t said a word. There’s an expression that’s a mixture of confusion and desolation on his face that Combeferre can’t bear to look at.

“Seriously, Courfeyrac. Please don’t take this personally,” he just doesn’t know how to explain it.

This yearning for freedom, for choice, for —

Combeferre’s not sure if it’s intentional, or if his hand simply slips.

There’s an almost inaudible snip.

He regrets it immediately afterwards, but Courfeyrac’s already long gone.

* * *

 

Courfeyrac’s in shock. It’s by instinct and muscle memory alone that he somehow finds his way back to the apartment, all but collapsing onto the couch.

Lucien Combeferre. His soulmate.

Or at least, he had been.

The place where the thread had once been is red and raw, throbbing no matter how he tries to ice it, taping it over with a bandage, ladening it with antiseptic —

Courfeyrac can’t breathe.

He doesn’t even grab his jacket as he storms out of the apartment. As if on cue, the sky rumbles with thunder.

As the lightning splits it apart, Courfeyrac almost laughs at the irony.

* * *

 This sure as hell isn’t freedom.

Not even remotely close.

Instead, Combeferre’s felt nothing but empty. Hollow, and pained, as though those scissors had cut into his very heart.

The rain that pours from the sky seems oddly fitting.

Combeferre finds himself sitting alone on a park bench, watching it all fall down.

* * *

 

Courfeyrac has lost track of the time when he finally tires. Combeferre’s probably already long gone.

Probably didn’t even spare Courfeyrac a second thought.

He’s in the park now, shoes soaked through and coated with mud as he trudges down the desolate path.

He should probably head home now, he thinks.

But something inside of him says otherwise. Something faint, reminiscent of the light he’d seen in Combeferre’s eyes today, there and then gone.

So Courfeyrac keeps walking.

Combeferre wonders if the man approaching is sane or not.

Through the downpour, all he can make out is a silhouette of a person not wearing a jacket despite the horrific weather, seemingly wandering aimlessly.

As he gets closer, Combeferre catches a glimpse of a face that’s so strikingly familiar it knocks the breath out of him.

“Courfeyrac?”

* * *

 

“Combeferre,” Courfeyrac breathes.

“How the hell did you find — Are you following me?” Combeferre’s immediately on the defense.

Courfeyrac shakes his head vehemently. “No, I wasn’t I swear. I just wanted to talk to you and — “

_ Something _ had led him right to Combeferre.

Courfeyrac doesn’t even finish speaking before Combeferre realizes he doesn’t need to.

Because clearly, Combeferre’s done something wrong.

Or, the universe has done something right.

“Let’s start over, okay? I’m Lucien Combeferre.” he says

They’re both soaking wet, standing alone in a park at dusk, and as another crack of thunder shakes the sky, Combeferre can’t help but shiver.

_ But. _

When Courfeyrac’s stunning smile returns, eyes bright enough to conquer any storm Combeferre could imagine, he can’t help but smile back.

 


End file.
